


What We Do (Leave the stories untold)

by Captain_Jowl



Series: What We Do [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Character Study, Day 2 Secrets - Freeform, Explicit Sexual Content, Eyeliner, GW2020, Kink Exploration, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Mickey, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 10, Post-Wedding, Rough Oral Sex, through porn of course what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25413361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Jowl/pseuds/Captain_Jowl
Summary: Gallavich Week 2020, Day 2 - Secrets.Mickey is still a bit confused with the spectrum of emotions that private moments with Ian evoke in him. There are some things they do that Mickey would prefer to keep in secret. For more than one reason.Russian translation from the amazing Jane McArrow:https://ficbook.net/readfic/9699790.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: What We Do [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020709
Comments: 76
Kudos: 346
Collections: Gallavich Week 2020





	What We Do (Leave the stories untold)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my entry for Gallavich Week 2020, Day 2 - Secrets.  
> This is exactly what you expect from me. 
> 
> P. S. Thanks, Dee, you're the best <3

The sun is already setting as Mickey makes his way to the house from the L. It’s Friday and that means that he had to work a long shift at the store while Ian has been enjoying his day off. And as much as Mickey is happy that Ian got to relax at home, he is also kind of jealous because he had to spend his whole day at the store, trying to look menacing enough in his ridiculous uniform. At least they allowed him to ditch the stupid shorts as it got colder. Whatever, it still sucked. He fucking hopes there are leftovers waiting for him in the kitchen.

The usual ambience of the Gallagher’s house greets Mickey as he walks through the door. The TV is on; someone is listening to music and walking around upstairs. His husband is sitting on the floor in front of the couch with his legs crossed, Franny sitting in front of him. His back is turned to Mickey, and as he tries to look around at the sound of the closing door, Franny puts her tiny hands on his cheeks to stop his head from turning.

“Don’t move! I want to look!” she demands and Mickey chuckles. Debbie is supposed to be out in a month and until then whoever is free is stuck babysitting the bratty toddler. Ian is probably the only one who is happy about it, spending hours playing with her, brushing her hair and making her favorite snacks. Mickey doesn’t complain. He sees the way Ian’s eyes are glinting when Franny runs to hug him every time he comes home from a long shift, this soft fucker; and if it means that Ian’s gotta spend more time with his niece to be that happy – so be it.

Toys mixed with little bottles and pencils are spread all over the floor around the redheaded pair. They’ve obviously been sitting here for a long time.

“Whatcha doing there, Weasleys?” Mickey asks while shrugging off his jean jacket.

Upon hearing Mickey’s voice Ian tries to turn around again but Franny doesn’t let him.

“We’re playing!” she exclaims. Her tone suggests that Mickey has just asked a very silly question.

Ian gives up on his attempts to look at his husband and throws him an over the shoulder hand wave like a complete dork.

“Hi Mick, I’m kinda stuck here,” he shrugs apologetically.

“Don’t worry about it, Supernanny,” Mickey answers, eyeing the kitchen. Liam is finishing up with his dinner at the table, and whatever is on the big plate in front of him looks good. The food smells nice and Mickey gets reminded of his empty stomach. His feet are killing him from standing for the whole day and all he wants is to sit the fuck down, get some warm food in himself and then plant his ass in front of the TV for the rest of the evening.

“Tami made pot roast, there’s some left for you,” Ian informs him as if sensing his hunger and general tiredness. “Carl finally bought beer.”

“Thank fuck. Gonna go ditch the work clothes first.”

“Okay, I’ll come upstairs in a minute,” Mickey hears a warm smile in Ian’s voice and can’t suppress his own happy grin as he makes his way to their room. It’s all the things. It’s coming back to a house where people think to leave food for him; it’s looking forward to the weekend of lounging and beer and Liam’s math homework; it’s his husband being so excited to see him that he doesn’t want to wait until he changes and comes back downstairs. He never thought he could feel so warm and light coming home from work. He fucking loves coming home from work. 

Their room looks cleaner than it was in the morning – all of the clothes they had lying around is put away and all the empty beer cans on the night stand have disappeared. Ian obviously took full advantage of his day off, which shouldn’t be that appealing – but for some reason the thought about his husband being all domestic and taking care of the space they share in his free time fills Mickey’s stomach with warmth. And what if he smiles like a smitten idiot when he throws his work polo in the empty laundry basket and puts on Ian’s t-shirt? No one sees it.

The accordion door slides open as he is digging through the drawers in search for his favorite sweatpants.

“Hey,” says Ian in this special tone that is reserved for when they are together. “Long day?”

“Fuck yeah. That new cashier idiot managed to– ”

The words get stuck in Mickey’s throat as he turns around and takes in Ian’s appearance. His husband is being his usual casually hot self (seriously, who looks that good in a plain black t-shirt?); however as much as it still gets Mickey’s heart to beat faster, what really grabs his attention is the fact that Ian’s eyes are outlined with black, and _fuck_. Wow. Okay.

He immediately gets reminded of the club, the vibrations of the bass and the flashes of the light smoothing over the lean muscles and those kohl-rimmed eyes looking at him from the podium, so intensely…

Ian’s eyes are already a weak fucking spot of Mickey, but add the touch of black with that tiny amount of smudge to it and his brain stops working whatsoever. Gallagher looks so stupidly hot like that, with his messy hair and a private smile and…were his lips always this pink?

Ian notices his bewilderment and laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck in slight embarrassment.

“Franny wanted to play around with Debbie’s make-up stuff and I made a mistake telling her that I know how to put on eyeliner,” he ducks his head sheepishly, looking at Mickey from under the eyelashes and his eyes, _fuck,_ his eyes…

Mickey is staring. He feels perplexed as fuck, trying to process why black make-up around Ian’s eyes make a rush of heat flood his head, and he is _staring_. That shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, but for some reason Gallagher looks like sex and…

“Mickey?” Ian asks. There is the teasing edge to his tone, mixed with disbelief. He looks Mickey up and down, takes in his heavy breathing and general fluster. “That turning you on or something?”

Mickey shrugs helplessly, still lost for words. Ian raises a playful eyebrow, tilts his head, pondering for a second. The uncertain smile on his face suggests that he isn’t sure what to make of the situation. Then he seems to make a decision, reaches and slides the accordion door behind him closed.

Mickey swallows as Ian stalks towards him with an amused smirk.

“Are you wearing lipstick?..” he asks quietly. Ian’s lips aren’t visibly covered with anything but they do look brighter than usual. Mickey feels like whispering for some reason, as if talking too loudly about it is not okay.

“Nope, just lip stain,” Ian answers. He takes the sweatpants Mickey has been mindlessly gripping all this time from his hand and throws them on the bed.

Mickey wants to ask what the fuck is lip stain, but Ian pulls him flush against himself and he has to let out a strangled groan, because Ian fucking smells like berries. As much as he usually enjoys Ian's natural scent, the sweet strawberry-like smell radiating from his warm skin makes Mickey's mouth water. He nuzzles into Ian’s neck and puts his lips against the hollow of his throat, eliciting a soft sigh from his husband.

“What's that?” Mickey rasps, feeling hungry but in a totally different way from how it was ten minutes ago.

“What's what?” Ian murmurs into his ear. His hands are on Mickey’s hips and he is crowding him backwards with clear intent.

“You smell… _fuck_ , Ian...” something hits the backs of his knees and next thing he knows he is being pushed to sit on the chair they use to throw their clothes on.

“That’s Debbie's stuff, Franny sprayed me all over,” Ian tells, watching him curiously.

Mickey looks up at him. This is weird, right? Does he have to feel weird about it? It’s not like Debbie walking around smelling like candy does it for him, so it has to be an Ian thing, not a girly stuff thing, right? His arousal confuses him and it’s not something he is used to. 

He has half a mind to shut everything down and pretend like nothing happened, but then Ian is straddling him and he completely loses his train of thoughts.

“You like?” Ian asks, bracing his hands on the back of the chair, over his shoulders, and starts to slowly grind down in his lap. And of course Mickey fucking likes it, how can he not? He isn’t sure he is ready to voice anything about it though, so he just grips Ian’s hips, feeling his husband’s sharp hipbones through the soft cotton of the sweatpants, and burrows his face in the crook of Ian’s neck, inhaling deeply. He smells delicious, like fucking candy-coated strawberries, and Mickey’s blood is rushing so fast he can hear his own heartbeat. Gallagher hums with satisfaction, and a little bit like he is entertained. Fucker.

They’ve done it before. Ian liked to give him lap dances, back when he was working at the Fairy Tale. They were young and Mickey was still fighting against his own wants and Ian loved to tease him, cornering him against the leather couches, climbing into his lap and using his own body to get him flushed and horny and embarrassed because of how horny he was.

Turns out Ian didn’t forget how to do that, after all those years. His warm hands are gliding over Mickey’s shoulders, down his arms, over his chest. He is rocking his hips in slow, easy circles in Mickey's lap, invading his space and all his senses – and Mickey is dizzy and completely captivated. All he wants is to touch and to be touched, so he lets his palms trace their way up and down Gallagher’s sides and under his t-shirt, his waist fitting right into Mickey’s hands. Ian sighs with delight and moves in as if to kiss him, only to pause at the last moment with a laughing breath against Mickey’s eagerly parted lips, the fucking tease he is.

Mickey swears and Ian pulls back to look at him with a sly smile. There is that devilish light in his eyes, and Mickey wants to tease back, make a naughty comment, give as good as he gets, but the sultry look Ian is giving him – black-rimmed eyes fucking big and intense – makes it ridiculously hard to form coherent thoughts. He is just so _present_ in his lap, solid and warm, taking up all of his attention, and Mickey is helpless.

Keeping the eye contact going, Ian rolls his hips on him, shifting, his ass grinding against the bulge in Mickey’s pants. They both gasp, Mickey just now realizing how hard he is. He smoothes his palms over Ian’s skin under the t-shirt, up to pinch his nipples and down to rub his thumbs in the dips on the inside of Ian’s hipbones, feeling the sway of his pelvis. Gallagher’s own sweatpants are tenting obviously when he leans in to leave a few kisses along the arc of Mickey’s neck. Mickey groans, fingers digging into Ian’s hips. The primitive part of him almost completely takes over…

But then Ian brushes his lips against Mickey’s ear, and purrs:

“How is your day going so far?”

And everything comes crashing down on him. Mickey freezes, his hands fall to his sides.

Hearing Ian saying that, like this, gives him a nasty flashback. _Sweaty bodies, Ian’s dilated pupils, wrinkly hands groping him while Mickey watches and does nothing, can’t do anything because that’s a job, a job where Ian doesn’t get to choose_ _who puts his hands on him, doesn’t get to be in control…_

He is breathing heavily, but it’s not a good thing. If that brings up this kind of memories in him, what kind of memories does it bring up in Ian?

Ian catches on that something is wrong and stops the roll of his hips. He pulls back, confused, eyebrows frowned. He waits for Mickey to explain, knows to give him time. Mickey bites his bottom lip, clenches and unclenches his fists.

“Are you…” his voice sounds constricted and he swallows against the dryness in his throat. “Are you okay doing it?”

“Ehm, yes?” Ian’s voice is even more wrecked than his. He searches his face, trying to understand what happened.

“I mean, with the…with the club and everything. Don’t you feel like?..”

He doesn’t know how to voice it. Does it remind him of the club, bringing back the time he wasn’t the owner of his body? Is it a bad memory that Mickey evokes because of his horny stupidity? _Is it okay for Mickey to be that turned on by Ian channeling his ex-stripper persona? Should he feel bad?_

Gallagher catches on, as he always does. Sighs, rolls his eyes. Looks around pointedly. Mickey automatically follows his gaze. He sees Ian's books on the shelf, a water glass and a half-eaten protein bar on the nightstand, his own sweatpants thrown over the new bed covers he recently bought. He looks back at Ian and his husband is smiling.

“We're in our bedroom, Mick,” he says. “I'm wearing my sister's eyeliner and sitting on your lap in our bedroom.”

“Okay,” Mickey says after a pause. And he gets it. He fucking gets it, okay? And still. “You don’t feel like…” Come on, he read about it. “Like…objectified or whatever?”

“We’re literally married,” Ian laughs and waves his ring finger with the wedding band at him. And that – Ian’s long finger with a ring he himself put on it in front of his face – that gets to Mickey. Married. They are at home, in their bedroom. No drugs, no old perverts, no manic episodes. No one is being forced or anything. And it is not his fault that his husband looks like every gay guy’s wet dream in that fucking eyeliner.

Ian looks at him, waiting patiently for him to come to terms with his thoughts.

“I’m fine, Mick. I want to,” he promises.

“Okay,” Mickey whispers. “Okay, fuck.”

It doesn’t have to mean anything. They can play or whatever.

He lets his forehead rest on Ian’s shoulder for a bit. Ian hums and guides his hands to rest on his hips, starts rocking in his lap again. He still smells delicious, warm and sweet, and Mickey’s arousal is rushing back. Now that he's sure Ian's okay, he lets himself get lost in his fantasy, in their common fantasy.

He cups Ian's cotton-covered ass and squeezes hard, eliciting hot little sighs of encouragement from his husband. Ian takes a firm grip of his hair and pulls him into a filthy kiss, all tongue and teeth.

“What do you want, Mick?” he asks, an inch away from Mickey’s lips. “What do you want me to do?”

What Mickey wants is for Ian to fuck him full of come. It was a stupid fucking question and Mickey pulls back from the kiss to tell him just that, but…

Ian is circling his hips slowly, so slowly, looking absolutely sinful as he bites his lips that are still so pink with whatever _thefuck._ Mickey imagines those pretty lips wrapped around his cock and the thought suddenly makes him groan into the air between them. And shit, he wants _that_.

“Get on your fucking knees,” he says and Ian flashes him a pleased as fuck grin as he slides on the floor between his thighs, crushing the last of Mickey’s concerns. If this isn’t consent, he doesn’t know what is.

Ian doesn’t waste time unbuckling his belt and unzipping his work pants. Mickey’s stomach is clenching in anticipation as Ian drags his clothes down to his ankles. Mickey is _hard_ and Ian nuzzles up against his shaft, letting the head of his cock slip, smearing his cheek with precum. His wet tongue darts out to lap at the leaking slit and then he is leaning forward and wrapping his stained lips around his length, and Mickey can’t help a moan.

Gallagher is pulling out all his dirty tricks – dipping his tongue in his slit, sucking and licking from all angles, massaging his balls, giving him his best bedroom eyes, – and it’s fucking _working_. Mickey doesn’t know what he loves more – the slick twist of Ian’s tongue, the way spit is building up in the corners of his mouth or the little sounds he makes in the back of his throat. It is overwhelming and Mickey is reveling in the hot slippery warmth when Ian closes his eyes and slowly takes his cock deep in his throat.

“ _Fuck_ , Ian, look at me,” he pants, widening his knees as much as he can.

Ian glances up at him and he looks absolutely pornographic with tears in his eyes and smudged eyeliner, those pink lips wide around Mickey’s dick. Damn, Mickey wants to snap a picture or two.

His thoughts are hazy and sex-crazed, so he doesn’t bother to stop himself from taking a good grip of Ian’s red hair and directing him to continue sucking. He finds some perverted pleasure in Ian gagging and slurping, his throat contracting around his cock with every thrust. He would feel bad, but he hears Ian’s lewd moans echoing his own, and he knows that Ian is loving it as much as he does.

“Yes,” Mickey hisses, words spilling out of his mouth with no filter as he pulls on Ian’s hair, holding him down by the back of his head. “Yeah, fuckin’…fuckin’ choke on it…”

Ian is sinking lower with every bob of his head until his nose is buried in his dark pubic hair. Mickey’s vision blurs out as he trails his hand down Ian’s neck and feels the bulge of his own cock lodged in his throat passage. Ian struggles to swallow around him, choking for a moment, and Mickey tugs his head up, letting him gasp for air.

Ian only pants for a short second before going back to deepthroating, and there is absolutely no way Mickey can hold back now. He is moving his hips, taken over by instinct, enjoying the messiness of it all. There is spit and tears and precum, filthy noises and a hot, slutty guy between his legs. It is like something out of porn, but it isn't. It is happening with Mickey and his husband, in his married life.

When Ian glances up at him through his wet eyelashes, cheeks hollowed under the cutting line of his cheekbones, Mickey about loses it. He thinks about coming all over his lips, ruining his pretty face, but his orgasm is already building, roiling in his balls, and he can’t possibly force himself to pull out.

He is entranced by Ian’s heated gaze, and those eyes… _fuck_ , those eyes…

“Gonna fuckin‘ come,” he gasps. “Fuckin’ swallow.”

Ian hums enthusiastically and Mickey pulls on his hair a little harder, bucks hips once, two times, and then he is coming with a long pleased groan, milking himself dry right into Ian’s mouth. He distantly notices Ian swallowing a mouthful and falls back in his chair, panting. Holy _fuck_.

They sit like this for a moment, Ian breathing heavily against his naked thigh. Then Mickey is tugging Ian back into his lap. Ian still hasn’t caught his breath, chest heaving, and his hard cock is rubbing against Mickey’s stomach. Mickey kisses his cheek briefly and pulls his clothes down, just enough to jerk him off, spits into his palm generously and takes him in his hand. Ian’s plump lips open around tiny sexy gasps as Mickey starts working his dick with a tight grip. Ian fucks into it, rolling his hips, and Mickey hisses when he grinds against his own oversensitized cock. He slides his free hand into the back of Ian’s sweatpants and under the boxers, grabbing at his asscheek, helping him buck his hips. That gets Ian to let out a hoarse moan, the blush on his cheekbones spreading. His eyes stay shut as his whole body shudders in Mickey’s lap, and Mickey laughs in delight when he feels the come splattering on his hand, on Ian’s sweatpants, on his t-shirt. 

Ian collapses against him and he holds him close while he pants in the crook of his neck.

“Jesus,” Ian laughs after a minute and pulls back to look at Mickey. “God, you’re a kinky fucker.”

Mickey smacks his naked thigh, and they laugh and grin at each other. Ian looks absolutely ridiculous and kind of hot with smudged make-up on his cheeks and his lips red after giving him a killer-blowjob.

“Go wash your face, you look like a slut,” Mickey says with a wide grin. Ian punches him in the shoulder and gets off his lap with a grace of a newborn deer. Before he can leave, Mickey grasps his wrist and tugs him in for a brief kiss.

Ian flips him off on the way to the bathroom but he is smiling and okay, this is probably the butterflies in Mickey’s stomach.

There is a tiny smudge of come on the t-shirt Mickey is wearing, but he doesn’t care. He puts on his sweatpants after wiping his slippery hand on his work pants and throwing them in the laundry, and goes to wash his hands in the bathroom, Ian already gone. He looks at himself in the mirror, chuckling at how flushed he still looks. He can’t stop fucking smiling. Whatever has just happened in their bedroom should’ve left him feeling dirty, but instead it left him feeling light and happy, like he got closure on something that has been bothering him for the longest time. Next time Ian decides to give him a lap dance or spray himself with some fucking strawberry-candy water, he will think about today’s evening and not about the club and old perverts. He wonders if Ian had similar thoughts as he was washing away the make-up.

Mickey takes his time to cool down a bit, splatters water in his face. He doesn’t need to hear any shit from fucking Gallaghers about his obvious sex hair or post-coital blush. This is their business, his and Ian’s.

When he gets downstairs, Carl has taken Ian’s place on the floor near the couch, playing with Franny. Liam is at the dining table with a book and papers that look like homework. Lip came back from wherever he was and nurses a bottle of non-alcoholic beer, watching over Liam’s shoulder. In the kitchen Tami pushes a full plate in Mickey’s hands and gets back to washing the dishes.

Suddenly, he is overwhelmed. He feels like they all know what they did. He doesn’t want anyone to know. He wants to keep it private.

He feels shame – not because he had sex with Ian, he is never ashamed of that and if anyone has a problem with that they can go and fuck themselves. So no, it’s not about sex. It’s about his fucking discoveries about himself and Ian, the vulnerability of his memories and the way he overcame it tonight. Maybe a little bit about him getting a boner because Ian wore Debbie’s eyeliner. Maybe.

He doesn’t want anyone to know but it is probably so obvious, written on his face, on Ian’s face.

Mickey stands there in the kitchen, heart beating hard and fast in his chest, until his eyes fall on Ian. Ian is sitting at the table with Fred in his lap and spoons food in his tiny mouth. His face is clean, no traces of make-up, lips only slightly plump, and Mickey loses his breath a little bit, because he looks so innocent and _domestic_ , surrounded by his family; nothing indicates what happened between them in their bedroom. Mickey sits opposite of him and keeps on looking, trying to connect the Ian on his knees upstairs and the Ian with a baby in his lap in the kitchen. He glances at other Gallaghers, wondering if they can tell what they were doing not ten minutes ago, but there is nothing unusual in their behavior. No sidelong glances, no teasing, nothing.

Mickey takes a fork and starts eating. Liam asks him a math-related question, he answers. Lip rolls his eyes, makes a snarky comment. Ian laughs at something Fred does and feeds him another spoon.

Everything is so _normal_ , but Mickey’s mind is still upstairs, in their bedroom, picturing it over and over again. He looks over at Ian, and he watches him with the glint in his eyes that tells Mickey he is thinking about it too. They share a smile and Mickey feels his shoulders relaxing. It’s the same Ian from upstairs, who also tries to act normal. He doesn’t want anyone to find out, too.

Ian and he always had secrets. Big secrets, dark secrets. The things they never told anyone and never will because of how painful they are. It’s not all bad, though. They also have good secrets, private memories that are reserved only for the two of them. Something silly or something important, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that these secrets lie at the very core of their relationship, because their relationship always was only about them two. And what happened today is just one more thing. One more thing that stays between them.

They won’t talk about it, but they both _know_ and that’s enough.

No one else needs to know what they do.

**Author's Note:**

> Will Ian ever wear eyeliner again? Did anyone hear Mickey saying ‘fuckin’ choke on it’ while going to the upstairs bathroom? Why is Fred not asleep so late at night? Does this fic make sense? So many questions.
> 
> (also, no tag for the make up kink on ao3? ao3 is kinkshaming me)


End file.
